


strings of hair and frame of bone (The Bone Harp's Song Remix)

by Burning_Nightingale



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Twa Sisters (Ballad)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Corpse Desecration, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Disturbing Themes, Gen, Horror, Murder, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 14:53:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15512259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Nightingale/pseuds/Burning_Nightingale
Summary: Would you forgive the sister who let you drown, singer?Maglor helps The Bone Harp achieve her vengeance.





	strings of hair and frame of bone (The Bone Harp's Song Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [bone-deep](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5675209) by [havisham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham). 
  * In response to a prompt by [havisham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham) in the [remixrevivalmadness2018](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/remixrevivalmadness2018) collection. 



> Yet another idea that latched on and _would not_ let go; I literally wrote this in three hours ^^; I super enjoyed writing this, I hope you enjoy reading it!
> 
> Please please **heed the warnings** this story is somewhat graphic and has disturbing themes.

The building of the harp is bloody - though no worse than butchering a pig, all told. The bones come out slimy, slippery in his hands, and glow a shocking, startling white (once he's cleaned off the blood, of course). His hands remember the motions, the rhythms of shaping a harp frame, threading and tensioning the strings, and they long for it - but not here, on the wet, exposed seashore. This needs time, attention; warmth and a steady hand. 

This needs  _care_.

~

The harp begins to whisper as he shapes the frame, as his hands caress the bone in the wake of the knife. The sound flutters around his ears, at first nothing but a soft hiss just on the edge of hearing. 

But it grows.

The bone was cool at first, protected from the cruel waves by the flesh it hid sheathed within; but now it is cold, cold as ice under his tingling fingertips. It speaks to him with a woman's voice, soft words hissing low and sibilant in his ear. 

_Would you forgive the sister who let you drown, singer?_

"I have no sister," Maglor says to it. His fingers brush the golden strings. 

_But there were brothers once. Many brothers._

"Once." Maglor tests the strength of another skein of hair, then threads it through the pins. He'd shorn it from her head dark and water-logged, but dry it shines gold like sun-ripe barley. It had been long enough to reach her knees, long enough to string even the low A with ample length to spare.

 _Would you forgive them, singer?_ The voice is insistent now. 

Maglor tests the string's tension, tightens it. The sound rings out, cold and clear as a bell. "No. I would not."

_Would you deny me my vengeance, singer?_

"It is none of my affair."

The harp hisses. A low humming sound fills the air; when Maglor presses his fingers to the strings, he finds them vibrating.

 _Will you not give me_ justice _, singer?_

Maglor purses his lips. "Perhaps when I am finished."

He picks up another length of hair, and begins to measure.

~

When the harp is fully strung and tuned, it begins to play itself.

At first it only plays while he's asleep, or pretending to be; he hears the soft music radiating from it as he lies wrapped in his bedroll, hears the crooning whisper that sings soft words along with the tune. It grows bolder as the weeks go on, playing itself when he leaves it under his table at the inn, or matching its tune to the rhythm of his steps as he travels the countryside. 

"What will it take to quiet you?" Maglor demands, once he's reached the end of his patience.

_You know what, singer._

Maglor chews his lip, stares out into the darkness beyond the firelight. "You wish for me to kill your sister?" he asks.

_You need only bring me to her hall; I will do the rest myself._

~  

The steward of the hall looks happy to see Maglor when he arrives at the door. "We've not had a singer for many a month," he says, smiling as he ushers Maglor inside. "'Tis a cold and lonely outpost of His Majesty's kingdom, out here. Not many singers think my master's coin worth the journey!"

"But even lonely outposts long for music," Maglor says quietly, "And I relish the chance to journey to strange places - though your master's generosity will be appreciated, of course."

The hall is small and dark, lit only by a great firepit in the middle of the floor. By tradition the lord and lady should have their table at the far end of the hall, but necessity has forced them to move it directly next to the warmth of the blaze.

It is the lord who speaks, but his lady who catches Maglor's eye; as dark as her sister had been fair, and beautiful, though not half as lovely as he imagines her sister to have been. She looks on him with favour, an inclined head and a small smile. "Won't you play something for us now, singer?" she asks when her husband stops speaking, "A little tune to sustain us until our meal is brought?"

"It would be my pleasure, lady," Maglor says; and he brings out the harp.

Instead of playing, he sets it on the table.

For a moment, nothing happens. The lord and lady stare at the harp on the table, their brows furrowed. The steward coughs, once, pointedly.

Then the harp begins to sing.

 _"Oh sister loved, oh sister fair,_  
_Sister false, have a care,_  
_In my fate you've had great part,_  
_Lovely face hides wicked heart._

 _A man you loved, pure and true,_  
_A man who had less care for you,_  
_Instead he loved your sister bold,_  
_Betrothed we were, to have and hold._

 _A bolt of poison pierced you through,_  
_And darkness it inspired in you,_  
_To walk close by your sister's side,_  
_And steal my chance to be a bride._

 _You took me down to cold sea shore,_  
_Where waves crashed down in thunderous roar,_  
_And knowing that I could not swim,_  
_Without guilt, you pushed me in._

 _I called to you; you did not heed,_  
_Committed to your evil deed,_  
_You watched as water pulled me down,_  
_Under your eye I there did drown._

 _My broken body washed up on the shore,_  
_And there in grisly bloody gore,_  
_My bones out from my flesh he drew,_  
_And the singer carved my shape anew._

 _Now my hair makes up the string,_  
_And of your evil I do sing,_  
_Now my bone makes up the frame,_  
_And on my sister lies the blame."_

The quiet that falls after the harp stops singing rings in Maglor's ears.

The lady's face is a frozen mask of horror. "Catrin?" she whispers.

 _Now do you grieve me, sister?_ the harp laughs; the strings vibrate a musical accompaniment to the words.  _Have you been enjoying yourself, there in the place that should have been mine?_

The lady's face is white; her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

 _And you, my lord?_ the harp enquires.  _You professed to love me, yet so swiftly took my sister's hand in place of mine. Tell me, does she warm your heart as well as your bed?_

"This is some foul sorcery," the lord says, rising to his feet. "What evil perversion is this you bring into my hall, singer? What spell did you lay upon it, to make it sing with the voice of our lost loved one?"

The lord is blinding himself to the truth; but Maglor can see the understanding in his lady's eyes. She knows this is the truth.

 _Are you truly so blind?_ the harp spits.  _Can you not see? Your wife is a snake, my lord; a kinslayer! You should strike her down as she deserves!_

"Lies!" The lord gestures toward Maglor and the harp. "Take this evil sorcerer from my sight, and throw that  _abomination_ into the fire!"

 _Singer, I will not quiet until I am avenged,_ the harp whispers.

Maglor sighs, and lays a hand on the hilt of his sword.

~

Later, when the fire has burnt down to embers and the hall is cold, Maglor sits at the edge of the firepit, absently plucking at the harp's strings. "What now?" he asks it softly.

 _Now you have an enchanted harp, singer_ , the harp laughs,  _And you'd best treat her well._

Maglor looks over at the high table, and the lady's glassy eyes stare back from where she lies, cold in a congealing pool of her own spilt blood. "You will sing with me?"

_Your hands will never have produced a more beautiful sound._

Maglor sets his fingers to the strings. "Then let us begin."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
